


Parlay

by ActualHurry



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Established Relationship, Fear Play, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trust Kink, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry
Summary: Drifter sets up a hunt for Shin and makes himself the prey. Shin indulges him.
Relationships: The Drifter/Shin Malphur
Comments: 11
Kudos: 139





	Parlay

**Author's Note:**

> Fun disclaimer: Everything is consensual and hopefully made clear through the text, though arguably there should have been MORE kink negotiation, excess communication, and even a safeword would have been nice, but this is Shin/Drifter and they're stupid and don't know how to say things straight-up, etc. etc. etc., so. There's some meager violence, but if you made it through Right Hand Red (in which Shin gets stabbed through the hand and they still bang it out) then this should be nothing.
> 
> All threats between S/D in this fic, implicit or otherwise, are made in the name of foreplay. Though I would highly recommend not rigging bombs to make it harder for your fuckbuddy to get to you.

They’re on the Emerald Coast when Drifter clears his throat. Shin’s leaning up against a tree, paying little mind to what the other man’s up to. Maybe he’s considering new spawn points for the invaders, or tricks to make the players really work for their win. 

When Drifter hasn’t said anything for a few too many beats, Shin looks at him. He raises his eyebrows at Drifter and shrugs as if to say, _well?_

Drifter bristles like a spooked cat. He drops his eyes low and stubs the toe of his boot into the dirt. Looks at the beach, way off to the east; looks at the sky, way up, up, up.

Seconds tick past.

“I got this idea,” Drifter says finally. He’s still not looking at Shin.

“If you still want to try anything with me half-in, half-out of the portal, I’m leaving.”

“No!” Drifter spits, but there’s a brief flash in his eyes. “Shut up. No portals involved.” 

“Alright,” Shin allows. He pushes his shoulders off of the tree, rolling his weight forward a little. “What’s the idea?” 

Either it has something to do with Shin, or it has something to do with Gambit. And since Drifter’s looking anywhere _but_ at him, Shin’s tempted to make a sure bet. 

“You ever get bored?” Drifter asks, sudden. And now he’s animated, fiddling with the edge of his gauntlet, pacing. Shin watches him go back and forth as he talks. “You. I know you gotta, what with the whole, turnin’ over a new leaf bullshit and all. How long have you been retired now?” 

“It’s been—”

“Yeah, yeah, anyway,” says Drifter with his waving, uninterested hands, too busy whirling around to stalk in the other direction. Shin decides, _well, if that’s how it’s gonna be,_ and leans back against the tree again to wait out his manic tirade. “Point is,” Drifter continues, “I think you miss huntin’ folks down. And the problem with that is that there’s just nobody to hunt down no more. Not like you used to, right?”

He’s not wrong. Shin’s started thinking he’ll call those days, _The Golden Days._ He keeps that to himself, because he can imagine Drifter’s wild energy petering out just so he can stare in disbelief. It’s the end of an era in some ways, so maybe he’s a little sentimental about it.

“You need someone dead?” Shin asks directly, and Drifter sputters.

“Absolutely _not!_ ” Drifter snaps back at him. “Not dead, farthest fuckin’ thing from dead, _very_ alive, the most alive—just uh, think maybe…someone could do with a little, y’know…chasin’.” 

Drifter’s voice had crawled slower and slower as if the tumbling momentum of his previous ramble hadn’t been nearly enough to keep it going. By the time he’d reached the end of his answer, he’d been quiet and half-composed. He also looks like he could bolt at any second, which begs the question —

“Someone meaning you,” Shin says.

Drifter’s grin is forced. “If you got somethin’ to work out, pal, why not work it out on your ol’ pal Drifter?”

Shin’s lips twitch. He can feel the warmth bleeding across his nape like the start of a flush.

Drifter’s not that selfless. It’s obvious, sudden and stark like the mounting tension in the air between them: this is not for Shin’s benefit. Even more obvious: if Shin says so, every little bit of this very concept will crumble and Drifter will not bring it up again. If Drifter really needs this thin veil of an excuse, so be it. Shin’s interest has been piqued, and that’s really all it takes. Drifter’s got a way of reeling in anybody with an idea; the danger’s not in the hook, but in the poison that seeps in with it. It’s a slow thing.

So even though Shin knows what he’ll tell him later, today he lies and says, “I might be rusty. Let me think about it.” 

* * *

Shin does think about it once he’s alone. He doesn’t have much else on his plate at the moment; the world’s starting to crumble, and he’s got nothing to do but hope he’s set up all the pieces just right to deal with it.

Maybe that’s why Drifter’s bringing this idea up now. They’re both idle, they’re both waiting and restless. If Drifter’s itching for a fight, he wouldn’t tell Shin of all people. But if Drifter’s itching for something else…

Well, Shin had thought they were doing pretty good keeping things spicy, but if this is what Drifter wants, and he’s so determined that he’s trying to play Shin for it, Shin’s at least gotta admit he’s a little impressed.

Shin should probably not reward stubbornness, but he’s decided he’s allowed one stupid, dumb thing for himself every month. Indulging Drifter will be that stupid, dumb thing.

There’s also the fact that Shin tests this _idea_ of Drifter’s — he thinks for a long time about pressing Drifter into the dirt and Drifter _wanting_ it, all while Shin plays the role of real and true _hunter_ , and then, well…then he stops thinking, because he comes all over his hand.

With that settled, he sends a message over to Drifter to expect him a little later.

* * *

They’re back on the Emerald Coast; it’s better, Drifter told him, if they stay out of the way of people. Shin would agree. He doesn’t really need anyone thinking the Man with the Golden Gun’s come out of his vacation-retirement-break just to run circles ‘round Drifter of all people. 

Drifter hasn’t stopped staring at him since he arrived. Shin’s wearing his old gear: the righteous kind, the older model stuff that gives off that _legend_ vibe. It’s his leather, chafed stuff, vest and collared cloak and all browns and reds. He’s Shin Malphur, and the outfit doesn’t let anyone think twice. Drifter wants to be chased, Shin’s going to dress for the occasion. He’s even kept the helmet on. 

“Right. Rules.” Drifter’s gaze dances away from him like if he looks too long, Shin’s silhouette might get burned into his eyes. “Don’t shoot me. Don’t stab me. Don’t break nothin’. The game’s for fun, alright? _Fun_. But I’m not gonna make it easy for you, so…”

“Can I pull a gun on you?” 

Drifter’s jaw flexes. “Better not be any Golden Gun.” 

“Hand cannon,” Shin adds, and takes his gun out of its holster. It’s an old Crucible model, half-forgotten by most. 

“Empty?” 

Shin makes a show of sending all his ammo synths to Drifter’s inventory, then points his hand cannon off to the side and fires six times. Each _bang!_ rings out in the air around them, the wet impact of the bullet kicking up the soil second only to the shiver of recoil up Shin’s arm, settling nicely into his shoulder. He pulls the trigger an extra three times for that hollow _click-click-click_ , then holsters the gun again.

“Empty,” Shin confirms, keeping his smile out of his voice. “That ruin the fantasy for you?” 

Drifter’s eyes have gone dark and glinty. “…That’s fine. S’good.” 

Shin tucks his arms behind his back, one wrist held, back straight. He feels light and excited, exactly like he used to feel before a hunt. Anticipation, _thrill_. Oh, he really had missed it, even if this is no better than a placebo.

“Anyway, anyway.” Drifter’s finally managed to summon his lost composure. His voice is still a little husky. “You need to know anything else? Feel good? Feel rowdy?”

“I know what I can’t do. But what do you _want_ me to do?” 

“Aw, Malphur,” Drifter laughs, but it’s a stuttered, shaking bark of amusement. “You need it spelled out?”

Shin only pointedly tips his head.

Caught, Drifter pauses with his fingers dug beneath his headband, as if scratching an itch he can’t reach. The longer Shin keeps his gaze fixed on him, the more Drifter looks flushed, the more Drifter seems to want to burst out of his skin. But Shin doesn’t back down. He inclines his chin and he waits, waits and waits. 

Drifter breaks.

“ _Fine_!” he snaps. “You know, you’re the worst fuckin’ person to work with, I swear. You wanna know what I want so bad? Fine, fine. Chase me, catch me, fuck me. I don’t care what you do beyond that. Fuck’s sake.” He’s mumbling by the end, swatting a hand out in the air between them both as if to dispel Shin entirely.

Shin pulls out that earlier smile, makes sure it’s audible when he says, “Thank you.” 

“Asshole.” 

With all the boundaries and goals settled, they’re ready to play. Drifter looks, for just a second, uncertain. It’s the sound of metal being drawn out of leather that has him pausing, staring at Shin where he’s now holding that same gun an arms’ length apart from Drifter. It’s impossible to miss from here.

Shin points the barrel towards Drifter. Drifter freezes. They both know it’s empty, but Shin’s cutting quite the figure. Even the knowing doesn’t change that.

“Well?” Shin prompts.

Drifter looks back and forth between the gleam of the gun and the impenetrable dark of Shin’s visor. Back and forth, dizzying, half-frantic — yet he still schools his expression into some frustrated thing. “ _Well_ , what?” 

Shin jerks his chin out at the open Emerald Coast. “You want me to chase you, you better start running.”

Understanding shocks through Drifter like electricity.

And then he bolts.

To be nice, Shin gives him a head start. He shuts his eyes and counts silently, _3, 4, 5_ , hearing the heavy, fast step of boots in dirt and moss fade the farther away Drifter gets. It sounds as if he’s heading into trees, not towards the coast. Smart; an open area, and Shin would catch him in no time. Drifter wants to drag it out a little, that’s fine. Shin hasn’t had fun pursuing anyone in a while; he’s in no rush to end this game too soon. His Light burns for this, and he doesn’t want to put the flame out before it has a chance to truly heat things up.

Shin says aloud, “Ten,” then he starts off after him.

This arena is big, but it’s not that big. The ruins of the emptied building are across from him, the forest to the left, beach to the right. Shin leisurely swings out of the little grove and towards the line of trees, ducking past brush and over fallen branches to track the trail Drifter’s left behind. A broken twig here, disturbed leaf litter there…Drifter hasn’t even tried to hide the path he’s taken, but Shin hadn’t exactly given him the time to put effort into anything but gettin’ gone. 

Drifter runs like he’s running for his life. Something about that tweaks the adrenaline pumping through Shin’s blood, turning each pulse of his heart into a slower metronome. 

And then Drifter’s voice, sliding through his memory like honey: _I’m not gonna make it easy for you._

Shin raises his gun right as a web mine bursts up from the dirt to hover in front of him. _Click,_ says the pull of the trigger, and with terrible amusement he remembers emptying it only moments ago. Hopping backwards before he can be caught in the disorienting blast, Shin nearly loses his footing on slippery leaf mold and coughs a soft laugh as he rights himself, eyeing the affected air only feet away from him. The foggy shape of arc energy obscures his view of the world past it.

It’s only right that he should earn his spoils, he supposes. He holsters his gun.

Shin doesn’t wait for it to fizzle out. He skirts around the mess of arc energy, the hair on the nape of his neck standing up at the static so nearby. Now that he knows Drifter’s planted traps for him, he feels a little flattered. So it’s not just a hunt, not only a chase, but a challenge, too. He’s really rolled out the red carpet for him. Shin is remarkably, ridiculously pleased by this.

The Emerald Coast is only so large though, and there’s only so many places to leave things unseen, especially when one’s pursuer has had an eye for hidden things longer than most. Now that Shin knows what he’s looking for, he tosses knives at overturned leaves to burst down web mines before they can explode in his face. When he reaches the ruined building, he checks his corners for tripmines and leans around and under them without trouble.

He takes one corner that appears to have no red lines. Shin’s sure there’s no sign of a laser.

Something clicks when he steps through the threshold.

Shin is just quick enough to duck most of the way behind a collapsed wall before a mine goes off, blowing through a good chunk of his barrier. Brushing debris off of his shoulder, he takes a peek and notices the telltale broken pieces of a tripmine poking out of the shattered brick and stone.

Shin’s helmet crackles almost imperceptibly, and then Drifter’s cackle sounds through his ears. “ _You think I’d make it that easy on you?_ ” he sneers.

“No,” Shin says, honest, and though he appears as if he’s studying the remains of the nearly-lucky tripmine, he’s actually listening very, very closely. “You took the laser out of it?”

“ _Sayin’ it like that, you make it sound easy. It took some generous elbow grease and a lotta time. Not that you give a shit._ ”

“You’re using this as a testing opportunity, then?” There’s the faintest white noise like the tide from Drifter’s line, then rhythmic, soft splashing. Footsteps through shallow water. Shin’s eyes dart to the coast in the distance, just quickly enough to spot a flash of green robes flitting behind a rock just large enough to house a person behind it.

“ _Hey, hey now…you’re a good guinea pig. And I mean,_ ” Drifter says, then laughs again, sounding a little more undone this time. “ _At least I’m rewardin’ you for your work._ ”

“Are you?” 

A scoff. “ _Don’t tell me you don’t_ revel _in this, pal. I know you’re enjoying yourself. Been a long time since you’ve gotten to flex on anybody, right? You haven’t dipped a dainty toe in the Crucible all this time, ain’t even hopped into Gambit lately…so what’s an old legend like yourself to do but chase your own tail? I’m givin’ you purpose right now.”_

Shin’s nearly to the coast already. “Tell me what my purpose is, then.” 

“… _We’ve been over this, haven’t we? That bomb break your brain or somethin’?_ ” 

“I wanna hear you say it again.” 

Over the line, Shin hears Drifter suck in a breath. He doesn’t give Drifter the chance to say anything more; from over the rock, Shin drops down in front of Drifter and grabs him by the throat, cutting off whatever response he might have given.

Drifter makes an undignified noise, scrambling against Shin with wide, wide eyes. His fingertips catch at Shin’s vest, dragging, gripping; Shin shoves him back into the boulder he was hiding behind, his thumb pressed to one side of Drifter’s neck, the rest of his fingers holding to the other. He doesn’t force his hand against Drifter’s throat, only around his neck like a collar, but even through the layer of his glove it’s enough pressure to feel the rush of Drifter’s pulse under his hand, the rapid-fire rattle of his heart. Shin wants to taste it.

He says, casual, “You didn’t put any traps through the middle.”

Drifter wheezes and digs his fingertips into Shin’s wrist so hard that his hands shake. “Malphur—”

“You wanted me to catch you that bad?” 

“Fuckin’— _Shin_ —”

Underneath the visor of his helmet, Shin grins widely. “Found my purpose.” 

Drifter tries to aim a kick at Shin’s center, but Shin catches his leg and _yanks_ , pulling Drifter off his feet so he lands hard. Drifter coughs a wet gasp as Shin drops down between his legs, knees sinking down into the sand. He wriggles away from Shin’s hands on his waist, but he has to know he’s not going nowhere. 

“Tell me no,” Shin says plainly, holding Drifter there with a vice-like grip on his belt. 

Drifter jerks free in a surge of energy, slams his heel into the front of Shin’s helmet, and snaps, with vicious delight, “ _Fuck_ you!”

Shin reels back from the force, then shoves his weight on top of Drifter. Now it really is just wrestling, kicking up sand with every jerking motion between the both of them, limbs awry and fighting dirty, but Shin’s heart never leaves his throat, his own excitement at being so indulged nearly choking him. His helmet disappears in a flickering transmat as he makes a grab for either of Drifter’s wrists, his eyes narrowed with an unimpressed frown.

Their legs tangle, a pattern of Drifter’s leg over Shin’s, Shin’s thigh between Drifter’s; it’s impossible not to feel each other’s desire, hard and unmistakable. Shin drags their hips together. Drifter’s reply is a strangled noise of want. Shin’s moment of weakness that follows is an opening enough: Drifter bucks him off and kicks a second time.

His aim is good. The heel of his boot lands squarely in the center of Shin’s face, smears a dusting of wet sand and dirt right against Shin’s nose. There’s a burst of wet warmth and pain, Shin’s breath catching, Drifter’s laughter staining the edges of his attention — 

Shin lunges at him so fast that Drifter’s laughter stops like he’s been sucker-punched.

“Tell me no,” Shin grits out again. He holds onto Drifter’s wrists so tightly that he feels the strain of the muscles in Drifter’s arms as he tries to squirm away.

Drifter shivers and stops moving. He says nothing.

Shin looms over him then. Warm blood from his nose, broken, falls onto Drifter’s cheek, the red slowly tracking a weepy line down his face, towards his ear. Drifter’s eyes are darker than dark, the pitch of his pupils so deep that Shin could sink into it if he tipped forward a little more to join their lips together. All Shin can smell is earth, water, the liquid tack of iron stuck in his nostrils. Drifter tries wriggling again. Shin settles his weight over him like an anchor.

The firm, hot presence of Drifter’s arousal is still there against Shin’s thigh — that’s good, Shin thinks, moving, shifting to meet Drifter’s want with his own, with friction. The motion jostles the heavy teardrop of blood that’s collected in the center of Shin’s upper lip and it drips down; the drop of blood lands at the corner of Drifter’s mouth, the very same corner that lifts slowly into a smirk so blatantly incendiary, so _goddamn_ infuriating, that Shin’s restraint cracks like a dry branch underfoot and goes up in flames.

“Oh fuck,” Drifter gasps, his voice hot with fear, his next laugh wild and unhinged, as Shin pulls out a knife.

But Shin is only slicing through belts, impatience burning at him like Solar energy yet dispersed from under his skin. Shin cuts neatly through all the clothing at Drifter’s waistline. Drifter dares not move, not even as Shin rips open the robe, but he twitches full-body when Shin buries that blade hard into the ground next to him, an inch away from his neck.

“ _Ah_ ,” Drifter breathes out.

Shin wonders if Drifter even notices how his legs have fallen farther apart, letting Shin effortlessly take his place between his knees.

“Tell me no,” Shin says one last time, almost a whisper. His nose has stopped bleeding already; Drifter’s got his blood smeared at the corner of his mouth still, like lipstick, like a bruise.

Drifter laughs at him until Shin shuts him up.

The kiss is a fight too, an argument, a show of proof: _I deserve to be here, doing this to you, for you, for me._ It’s a chase, because Drifter yanks himself away to gasp a breath and Shin only gives him a fraction of a second for it, already kissing him again by the time he’s sucked in air between his teeth. Drifter bites Shin’s tongue, makes him really work to deepen the kiss, and Shin rumbles a noise like heat, like fire, like desire; Drifter shudders so hard that Shin’s persuaded into rolling his hips against his. Grains of sand get caught between their lips, and Drifter apparently has no qualms about spitting towards Shin.

Shin retaliates by dragging the flat of his tongue up from Drifter’s chin, over the prickle of his beard, across his skin, to clean the blood from the corner of Drifter’s lips with his own mouth. Drifter shakes like Shin’s got Arc on his fingertips, inhales like Shin’s gripping his throat again.

With Drifter’s lips parted, absolutely nothing stops Shin from spitting that blood and saliva right back at him, chasing it down into his mouth with his tongue. Drifter’s arms snap around him like a cage, dragging his hands down Shin’s cloak and twisting his fists in it until it wrenches Shin back.

They stare at each other, both panting. Drifter’s face is ruddy, his lips glistening and jaw slack, disbelief and arousal crossing his expression in equal amounts. Shin thumbs at his own lower lip, leather glove slicking the spit there right off. Drifter’s hands loosen as if all his attention has been directed elsewhere.

“Alright,” Shin breathes.

As Drifter’s throat bobs once, Shin decides he needs to fix the amount of layers still in the way between them. Shin quickly frees himself of Drifter’s lax grip, takes both of his wrists in one hand and smoothly steals Drifter’s headband with the other, looping the cloth around and around to keep Drifter’s wrists together. It’s done quickly enough that Drifter has no chance of freeing himself, and even less of a chance to argue as Shin pins his wrists down over his head.

In a flash, Shin moves that knife from one place to another — he brings the blade down again, this time caught in an empty space between one layer of the headband binding them together. Here, sand has started to give way to soil, the blade sitting straight and true. The headband rubs against the metal lightly when Drifter moves. When he feels the resistance, his movement stalls out.

Drifter glances up to look. Licks his lips. Says, “Ain’t that just _neat_.” But the wry snap of his voice can’t hide the way his body reacts, the way his hips arch ever so slightly into Shin’s body heat.

_Chase me, catch me, fuck me._

Well, Shin’s knocked two of those demands off the checklist. 

He slides a hand up Drifter’s naked abdomen to grip at his chest, to squeeze there. As he tweaks one of Drifter’s nipples, Drifter jerks backward so hard he slams his head back against the ground. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Shin says dryly, getting another wet, hectic laugh for his trouble.

There’s still too many layers between them, but Shin’s not done. He yanks Drifter’s pants down to his knees, frees his hard cock trapped until now; the tip is smeared glistening, and Shin leans in only briefly to lick at the salt-slick there. Drifter wasn’t expecting it — he must not have been, or he wouldn’t react like he does, kicking his heel into Shin’s back, curving his body like the ground is suddenly burning under him.

Shin pauses, observing all this. Drifter’s breath goes too quick, in and out; he looks almost shocked as their gazes meet. Without breaking eye contact, Shin takes him in his mouth more out of unhurried curiosity than anything else.

It’s fast, then: Shin closes his lips around the head and barely brushes his tongue against the underside, Drifter yelps like a wounded animal, and then he comes hot and heavy into Shin’s mouth. Shin almost chokes out of sheer surprise, brows knitting together and eye shutting tightly. He bends low so he can mouth all the way down Drifter’s length, throat working to swallow him down — mostly, anyway. 

When Shin pulls off of him, Drifter’s gasping, looking thrown and flustered, and when Shin takes off a glove and spits some of the remaining mess onto his fingers… 

“Oh, fuck, when did _you_ start gettin’ ideas like _this?_ ” Drifter rasps as Shin slides two fingers, wet with come and spit, into him. Drifter’s spent cock twitches as Shin fingers him open. “Reminds me... _ah_ , reminds me of the good ol’ days, y’know…All that time — _fuck, fuck_ you, that you spent as the Renegade?” 

Shin’s being very kind, immediately seeking out the most sensitive angle he knows. Drifter’s resulting laughter is chopped-up and indecipherable, some euphoric air between thrill and fear in each amused hiccup. “Ah- _ah_ , that stretch a’time while you were livin’ a lie just to get clooosss…” 

Drifter’s breath hisses between his teeth as Shin massages deep into him, fingertips brushing that curl of nerves that has him gasping on his words. Shin, on his knees in the sand, his mouth dry and so hard it hurts, murmurs, “Go on.” 

Shin already knows he’s asking the impossible. Drifter can’t catch his breath, let alone speak. Drifter’s next word comes out like mush, half-sob and half-swear, and he stutters on it entirely when Shin grasps his oversensitive cock in a gloved palm. His thumb rubs the tip of Drifter’s half-hard length, circling languidly, not exactly stroking. His fingers still work into him.

Drifter trembles while biting his tongue so hard that Shin’s impressed his teeth aren’t red with blood.

He keeps it up, until Drifter is swearing on every breath; until Shin’s fingers can move inside of him without so much pressure around them; until Drifter’s pants, still valiantly hanging on around one ankle, and the rest of his stupid accoutrements that _come_ with the pants, _thwack_ Shin’s back in a hectic rhythm with every one of Drifter’s impatient kicks.

“Hurry— _up_ ,” Drifter snaps, and kicks him again. Shin’s going to have a bruise the size of the Traveler and the shape of a heel directly in the center of his spine.

“I should’ve hogtied you,” Shin complains, adding a third finger just to hear Drifter’s snarl of outrage.

It’s almost too much when he lifts his hands from Drifter, only undoing his own belt and pants enough to pull his cock free. _Now_ he slips a small container of lube out, not looking at Drifter as he readies himself. He feels Drifter’s eyes on him the whole time, awareness washing up and down his body like pricking needles. There’s sweat beading on Shin’s brow; he pushes the strands of hair falling into his face back, glances up to meet Drifter’s gaze.

Whatever Drifter sees makes him swallow like there’s something stuck in his throat. Shin grins and shifts Drifter as he likes, his own arms underneath Drifter’s knees, keeping his legs bent.

“Be good,” Shin tells him airily, the kindness so thin in it that it could be stolen away by the breeze.

Drifter’s cough of amusement cuts off when Shin slides into him. His thigh twitches against the Shin’s arm, the words looking as if they really were snatched right out of him. Shin would like to try to smile, but he’s actually busy trying not to come immediately upon feeling Drifter’s heat pressing, smothering around his cock. 

That headband strains, really _strains_ , around Drifter’s wrists for the first time. Shin looks at it briefly, grateful for the short distraction, then looks back down at Drifter.

After blinking his dazed expression away, Drifter sneers at him. “What? You waitin’ on my permission? You wanna say, ‘ _tell me no_ ’ again? Go on, if that’s what gets you off. Say it.”

Shin leans down, the position forcing Drifter to curl in with an obvious wince as his back pops in protest at the angle; their noses nearly touch by the time Shin stops, his upper lip brushing against Drifter’s. Drifter hasn’t moved his head a bit, but for the first time, when Shin exhales, his chin tips up just a little, like he’s waiting for something.

But Shin only huffs out a laugh and leans up again, pulling his hips back and driving them forward again. Drifter snatches his own lip between his teeth and bites down.

He looks good like this, is the thing. Drifter looks good laid out on his back, robes pooled around him, his wrists wrapped with his headband and pinned by a blade. He looks good with Shin’s dried blood on his cheek, his lips so dark from kisses that they look painted, his eyes half-lidded even as sharp hunger gleams there under his lashes. His thick brows are furrowed with discomfort — in his shoulders from his arms being held up, or maybe his back where Shin flung him down, or even how sensitive he is after coming already while Shin fucks into him — but his body is willing, the cut of his sudden grin when he notices Shin looking, so _inviting_. He didn’t just leave the door unlocked for Shin to come in; he opened it wide for him, and let Shin think he was the one turning the handle.

Shin’s done a lot of idiot things in his life. (A lot, a _lot_.) 

Drifter’s not one of them.

Drifter gasps at the sharp thrust Shin gives him and proceeds to nearly brain himself on the rock behind him.

 _Probably_ Drifter’s not one of them.

Shin’s too far gone for patience now, and he doesn’t think Drifter would want anything different than this wild abandon now that they’ve reached the point of no return. And hasn’t this entire thing been machinated by Drifter, for Drifter, anyway? Shin’s known this whole thing was rigged in his favor from the start, so might as well take what he wants out of it, too.

So he takes, and Drifter’s mouth of gritted teeth curls into a smug smile, and Shin feels so very _hooked_ but can’t be bothered to give a damn, not when Drifter’s skin is hot everywhere they touch, not when he gives to Shin like this, like this is a treat at the end of a long day and not a sexual rendezvous in a Gambit arena where countless things have died. Drifter digs his heel into the curve of Shin’s lower back to urge him on, little hisses encouraging him faster, harder.

Shin gives it to him, faster, harder. Until Drifter tilts his head back. Until Drifter starts pulling a little harder at the headband keeping his wrists bound. Until the slick smack of sweat-covered skin sounds sharper with every moment that Shin drives his hips into him. Drifter’s been spilling words through the air for a while now, senseless, hopeless — curses and gasps and laughter so ragged that it sounds raw, and Shin thinks he’s heard wrong when Drifter says _please_ , ‘til he notices that between point _a_ and point _b_ , Shin’s dipped a hand between them to stroke Drifter again and it’s not enough, the only point of clarity the sharp edge of his boot heel against Shin’s back, and “not fuckin’ _enough_ ,” Drifter gasps —

Shin spills, stuttering to a stop as white bursts behind his eyes and he completely loses track of himself. The world fades for all of a moment and whatever desperate sounds Drifter’s making are lost in a fuzzy static. Shin has barely enough coherency left to think, _wow._

His consciousness picks up the pieces of himself slowly, but eventually the sun bleeds into his vision again and the sand digging into his skin in various places feels as irritating as he knew it’d be. His hand is wet, he notes, and drags his gaze up from where their bodies are still joined to the mess on Drifter’s stomach, up further still, to see Drifter’s eyes cinched shut and his teeth gritted together.

Shin blinks twice to clear the fog, then pulls out slowly, slowly. Drifter’s legs tense and Shin lets those down too, Drifter’s boots instantly dropping like deadweight. Shin pats Drifter’s hip a couple of times, transmats a clean cloth into his hand to wipe his fingers clean first, then himself.

By the time he chances a look back up to Drifter’s face, Drifter’s eyeing him again, something cornered there in the shadow of his gaze. His face is still flush with warmth, sweat glittering at his brow, but he seems equal parts skittish and nervous, halfway to bolting if he wasn’t caught on the ground. It’s not the usual post-orgasm mood, and it’s _far_ less than ideal, so Shin takes a moment to telegraph every motion: the raise of his arm, the lift of his hand before he rests the cloth against Drifter’s stomach, slowly wiping him dry before the mess can turn overly sticky.

“Good?” Shin says, no longer looking him in the eye.

“Ngh.”

Close enough.

After Shin rights his own clothes, he starts fixing up Drifter’s. The things he’s cut through won’t so easily be fixed here and now, but Shin’s seen Drifter replace his robes at the drop of a hat after they’ve been ruined by a) fire, b) acid, c) Screebs of varying sizes, or even d) again, Shin’s knife, so he’s not too worried about it. 

“I can do it myself,” Drifter snaps as Shin yanks his pants properly up his legs again. 

Shin drops his hands. “Fine, go for it.” 

Drifter glares at him pointedly with his arms still over his head and the headband still wound around his wrists. After a moment where absolutely nothing happens, he mutters something sullenly under his breath, his whole body going limp. Shin takes that as permission and finishes up.

There’s sand caught in every place imaginable, and Drifter looks like he’s been mauled, but Shin supposes this will have to do for now. He stretches forward in a long, lean line to snatch the knife from Drifter’s wrists, watching the way Drifter’s shoulders instantly fall and the immediate grimace as he slowly lowers his hands.

Shin sheathes the blade and reaches.

It’s either a testament to Drifter’s exhaustion, Shin’s performance, or both at once, that Drifter doesn’t even flinch as Shin gets his hands on him, his thumbs working deeply into the muscles of his arms. He starts at his wrists, undoing the headband and dropping it onto Drifter’s chest, before pressing circles into Drifter’s upper arms, the meat of his triceps, the ball of his shoulder. Drifter starts cringing then, but Shin doesn’t yield, only shaking his head as if to tell him to stay still. 

When he’s finally done, he gets to his feet and offers Drifter a hand. After a long, prickly moment, Drifter takes his hand and Shin helps to lift him up.

“Well,” Shin says, brushing himself off after Drifter lets go like he’s about to shock him. To give Drifter a moment to himself, Shin pokes at his own nose, testing if his Light’s healed it well enough, or if he needs to break it again. “That was fun.” 

Drifter looks him up and down, lip curled as if something’s just clicked for him. “…What was the point of emptyin’ your gun if you didn’t even pull it?”

Shin lifts his gaze from the sand to Drifter, as dry as kindling as he says, “Got your heart going, didn’t it?” 

Drifter has the nerve left to appear baffled at Shin’s mild reply — then, finally, does some measure of satisfaction slip onto his face, that same brand of smug that had him egging Shin on, fueling the fire. Drifter rolls his shoulders back as Shin watches, claps his hands together to get some of the sand grains off.

“Next time,” Drifter says casually, his voice still retaining the _well-fucked_ tone, syllables rounded out, throat smoky with it, “I’m puttin’ more traps down. Let you have some _real_ fun.” 

Shin wets his lips. “I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.”

As they leave, Shin makes the most gracious executive decision not to point out that he’s put Drifter’s chaps on entirely wrong. He can fix it himself later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. <3


End file.
